The Corporal
by zzetta13
Summary: Tracey Smith, for years had gotten away with not being responsible for his actions, or his course of duty. Why, because people had let him. His humor and his ability to just pawn things off as irrelevant had exhausted folk in trying to change him. However, now he was serious, and certain events had caused him to become that way. The back-story of Tracey Smith.
1. Chapter 1

_**The Corporal**_

_**Author's Note**_: Just another account chronicling the story of a grunt, a foot soldier, a soul who'd given credence to what she has been told, and also, was led to believe that the war was necessary. Moreover, the conquest of Serenity Valley...

Thanks for reading. I am always in your appreciation...Z

_**The Corporal...**_ is a new creation, a new character and I hope that readers remain interested in where I take it.

_**************Chap 1: The Rigors of War**__*****************_

A man approached a small enclave between two sloping mountainous ridges, well, they couldn't really be considered as mountains, they more resembled the K-9 teeth of a person turned upside down (two craggy knolls, not readily accessible from either side of their approach), however, the lower ridge between the two barriers, spanning only one-hundred yards, formed a nature like course, an avenue, and it provided a suitable pathway between the two higher ridged sections. This alleyway had been seen from above, by both sides of the warring factions (those who sought to be free of the constraints of Parliament and those...not so much of that belief). This area, as noted on the maps, would be one of desire, an area which may play a critical part of how the battle developed as the fight for Serenity Valley proceeded to its conclusion.

In this regard, it held value for both sides. The actual outcome of the War of the Independence had advanced to a crucial stage; the pendulum could still swing either way at this point. However, the momentum of the Alliance had gained a note of confidence, and could see that Serenity Valley may provide the fulcrum of their existence, the pivot point that determined if the now operating government remained in existence, or if it would have to share, and there would become two separate ruling powers in the known universe? It had been decided to put extra resources into the battle, and therefore vent a successful outcome.

Anyway, this area had been seen from above as a possible funneling point, a strategic place of importance, and both armies wanted it. However, the Browncoats had gotten to it first. They had taken ownership of this domain and had staved off several attempts by the grape-bellies to wrestle it from them. Now, even with the battle of Serenity Valley having lasted so long, longer than either side had expected, this area remained in Browncoat hands. The battle had dragged out longer than anticipated, and both the Alliance and Independence armies were scratching their heads on what to do next.

The two armies had dug in deep, not only into the blood soaked red soil which made up most of the planet's surface, but also into their coffers (for personnel and equipment: soldiers and supplies which each side cared not to squander). The battle had become a stalemate, a quagmire, a campaign of trench warfare, one that hadn't seen the like since WW1, reminiscent of old ETW.

Outnumbered and outmatched, this was one of the reasons why the Browncoats had rushed to gain the territory between the two hills.

The man approaching this area now was wearing a long brown overcoat, a duster. It was tattered and worn from usage, but still he seemed to value it, just as a baby might value and feel secure in its soothing, cozy, blanket. It had kept him warm many a frosty night here in this God-forsaken wasteland, and he viewed it almost as he would a protective shield, a barrier between him and the harm that could befall him. He almost considered it bullet-proof.

Malcolm Reynolds walked up over the ridge which lay between this one, and the rest of the Independence army, or what was left of it. He was now commander over two thousand troops, not a fun place to be, but he accepted the responsibility like he'd been born to it. As a rancher, back on Shadow, he had been around people all of his life and in his childhood he had learned how to take orders, and then as he grew older, how to give them. He was a natural leader, and now, with the Independent side having a marked deficiency of officers, as sergeant, he'd been given duty to oversee much more than just a single platoon.

Mal carried himself over to the CP (Command Post) of this tiny little abode. He met up with the corporal in command...she saluted.

"Corporal...you ready for the big event tonight?"

"I was born ready sarg..." she spoke. He smiled, he liked this girl already.

This little CP was no more than an open shelter covered by a tarp that was a dozen feet across, in both directions. It shielded the radio operator from the sun, which had turned into afternoon by now, and the post was only fifty yards from the main line of defense up on the ridge perimeter.

"How many souls do you have holding the line soldier," Mal asked of the woman with the double stripes on her uniform. The Corporal looked at him, and then she looked at the three others of her troop standing there with her, and the radio operator as well.

"We have eighteen souls Sir..." she hesitated for a moment, but then pride and determination would not let her tone sound as if she were bitter or sour about her situation, "...however, we can out-fight anything the purple-bellies can throw up that ridge."

The three of her troop standing there, and the radio operator himself, all took in a deep chest-full of pride knowing that their commander had such confidence in them. They would follow her to the grave it need be.

Mal was pleased with her answer, and he knew he'd put the right person in charge a week ago when she had first come here with a replacement unit to help bolster the Browncoat side. He would have enjoyed having her soldier for him personally; however, he had the best Corporal any Sergeant could ever desire. Zoe was his second in command, and should anything befall him, Malcolm Reynolds knew that she was more than capable in taking charge.

Anyway, the reason he had come was that there was another major offensive expected by the Alliance, one that could come at any time, and Mal had come to check on the north side of his line. Eighteen individuals, eighteen hard-nosed Browncoat soldiers, the line was thin here, but it was the same everywhere. The Corporal would have to do with what she had, however there were extra supplies available in the rear. Mal looked at the stained faces of those folk who'd paid so much already...and he was about to ask for more.

"You HOLD," he said, "The cradle of HQ is just eight hundred meters behind you. It is imperative that we keep the line here, understood?"

All of them dipped their heads in acknowledgement. The Corporal looked at her troops...

"Dismissed," she said, and they all headed back to their positions.

"Come, walk with me..." Mal spoke to the soldier. She glanced at him and then followed in step.

You know, he didn't even know her name. She hadn't cared to share it with anyone. She was only known as "_The Corporal_", and she seemed satisfied to be addressed as such. Mal took her for a walk.

"Well Corp, word is that the new offensive the Alliance is planning is a gamble, a risk. They're putting much of their eggs in one basket here, and my bet is that they'll try an attack at nightfall. Keep your troops honed to a knife's edge...we have a little back-up strategy of our own. Our Angels will be in town tonight, so look for support from the sky, but still, remain diligent should anything come before then."

Mal stopped and looked at the leader of the unit of eighteen...

"Need anything...anything I can get ya?"

The Corporal gazed over at Mal...certainly a handsome man; she had expected scars when she'd first heard of his ruggedness (she didn't know that Mal WAS scared, only it was on the inside), she spoke to the military man that she had a ton of respect for.

"There is something we could use Sir..." she said, "more pineapples (grenades)."

Mal viewed this small, fragile looking girl. He would well bet a million coin that she could walk into a bar and have ten men hitting on her in ten seconds. Also he knew that in ten minutes there may be ten men lying on the barroom floor a bloody mess.

"Done," he said, and then he gave her a smile.

END PART 1


	2. Chapter 2

_**The Corporal**_

"_**Part 2-A Love Story"**_

From the author: This chapter is totally written from an outsider's point of view, and is a bit of a tongue-in-cheek work. A forte of which, in some regard, was created with a humorous slant in some places, however, in others, I hope to tug a little at reader's heart-strings. The universe is a complicated place, we live, we love, we learn...but we always continue to push forward, Z

Introducing a new character,_** Pfc Dale Emerson Palmer**_ and as such, this chapter may be written more from a male's POV.

Now something of a description of Dale: mid to late twenties, and a handsome man in his own regard, he is completely shaven balled. However, with his stern jawline, captivating smile, and deep pressed blue eyes... he had gathered the attention of many a young woman. He is a confident man, and a good soldier, however, something has distracted him from the war... he has his eyes set upon a woman the likes of which he's never witnessed before (and its thrown him for a loop), a Corporal...read on to take a gander at what next may be in store.

_************* The **__**Corporal-Part 2: A Love Story **__***************_

PFC Dale Emerson Palmer (or Private Palmer as his Corporal called him), gazed out from his bunker across the wide expanse of red dirt which made up the majority of ground between his trench... (way up on the ridge), and the radio CP, fifty yards to the rear.

He watched as his commander was led away from her post by the Sergeant who'd been put in charge of a brigade which was made up of a hodge-podge of several Divisions, a mixture of soldiers from many different units, and he became a bit jealous..., a bit angry...Angry with Sergeant Reynolds for his attempt to capture the heart of a woman that HE, himself, had already the desire to capture. The man had no right coming here and tempting the woman of his affections.

PFC Palmer looked down to the ground and did sport a bit of guilt at feeling this way. Wasn't Malcolm Reynolds a man of integrity (?), a soul who was a soldier's soldier?

Sure, Sergeant Reynolds was a man who held a position of great honor and respect among the grunts of the Browncoat ground forces. His name had already become legend among the dog-face warriors who sat in shell-holes and sipped watered-down soup from their canteens (in the rain). The man easily had the forecast of a Full-Bird Colonel, yet had he the handsome look of a runway-model. One who could probably sell a million browncoats should he parade his ass down the runway of a stage on one of them floating malls on Bellerophon...

(_Dale Emerson Palmer was/is an individual who, in his younger time, saw to the needs of the core's upper crust of society. Born of the labor class on Bellerophon, he lived in one of desert towns on the land masses near Isis Canyon, he grew up as subservient to the wealthy, and he also grew up smelling the stench of some of the refuge where, the rich and famous of that world sometimes dumped their garbage when the incinerators were down, to evacuate it away from their own particular floating islands. _

_Palmer had been a delivery boy back in those days. He brought flowers to the parties of the rich and famous...particularly one, Durran Haymer, a man who loved to flaunt his collectibles. During one of those deliveries he met, and fell in love with the property owner's wife, Yolanda, however this flame-headed lady had eyes for another, a security programmer named Heinrich. She had been Dale's first love, and he'd lost her to another, but with his ever increasing affection towards the __**Corporal**__, he didn't plan on losing the target of his affection a second time... _

_Anyway, after war was declared, Palmer was a person filled with the desire to level the playing field, but he was also a person filled with jealousy, and too a desire to make things better. THAT, is was what had him file to join the Independence side when the war had started_)

The PFC took a gamble and brought his eyes back up to the sight that had so before disturbed him (Commander Reynolds courting his woman, his girl). The Sergeant was gone, yet so was the Corporal, his love...he didn't even know her name yet.

Palmer, at that instance, began receiving a radio transmission from the woman that he so inspired to _see_ him as more than just a soldier, as more than just a trooper under her command. He wanted the Corporal's affection.

"Private Palmer, you there?"

He answered her call...

"Here Sir, what's the plan?"

"The plan is for us to "Hold", hold the line. We don't let a single purplebelly up that ridge without having at least three hole in him, understood?...There will be no reinforcements, but Commander Reynolds did promise that we would promote us two extra cartons of grenades, and I trust him."

Dale did feel the impulse of jealousy at this reveal, still, this was war, and emotions set aside, he had to concentrate that they may be facing an attack within the next few hours...an Alliance attack from _Fox_ Company, that evil Alliance division that had no soul, and would end you even though you had so much to offer.

Palmer voiced into the radio located in his position...

"Affirm Sir, we are ready."

"Good. I've be joining you on your right flank shortly, OUT."

The Transmission ended and Palmer looked down the line at the eight soldiers under his command. They were spread out sparingly, but the fifty yards that was his domain to cover would be ingeniously blanketed with crossfire. Those purple-bellied bastards coming up the hill wouldn't know what hit them, should they attack within the next twenty-four hours. He took a swig of water from his canteen and motioned for the second in command of his troop, Amanda, to take over while he went to relieve himself.

END PART 2


	3. Chapter 3

_**The Corporal 3**_

"_**Bloody Serenity Valley"**_

From the author: OC...Stacy Smith, Dale Palmer, Wilkinson, Amanda Wilcox, Squirrel,

_**Previous chapters...The Rigors of War, &, A Love Story...**_

_************* **__**The Corporal *************_

The Corporal sat in her hole, well it wasn't exactly a hole...it was more her portion of a trench which lined the entire top of a ridge that was part of the defensive ring of a now depleted army, the Independence Army...One side of a confrontation which currently found itself knee deep in the muck and the mire of a battle gone way past its invitation.

This little ridge, this off chute well away from the main corridor of the valley proper, had seen its share of the life-essence (blood) soaked into its soil, drain into its bowels, and staining the rosy dirt of its surface with an even darker shade of crimson. The ground always seemed thirsty here, a glutton for the red stuff, even after it had drank its fill, it still was ready for more.

This day, at this time, the valley seemed quiet. There were no bullets echoing their crow off of the remote canyons that fingered their way from the main ravine. No thunder of cannon sounding in the distance. The valley seemed peaceful, peaceful and serene...like its namesake.

The Corporal sat crouched with her backside to the east wall of the dirt enclosure that made up the trench... her knees almost pulled up to her chest and her weapon held, ever the ready, across her lap. She thought she heard the sound of a bird chirping somewhere out in the distance, but that may have been just an illusion. She looked down the trench at the man she held in close regard, Dale. He was seated there, just as she was, only a mere thirty feet away.

Private Palmer, Dale Palmer. He had asked her her name many times, and she had only returned to him a smile. What were names in a hell-hole like this? Something that would easily be forgotten ten minutes after one's soul had been laid to rest? There was no sense in telling someone who you were, it would only be forgotten to history.

No, she had not cared to share her name with anyone...

The _**Corporal**_...had fire in her soul still, and she had pride, but now she also had regrets. She had joined the Browncoat ranks because of a family member, a brother. She wanted to prove to him that his little sister was just as capable of becoming an officer (among the freedom fighters), as he was. Sibling rivalry, competition or whatever you wanted to call it...wasn't beyond her to prove it to him, and to their parents, that she wanted to show that their little girl could become as much a success as her older brother.

Anyway, Corporal Smith sat there staring across, looking down the trench at Private Palmer. He was a handsome man, rugged in his appearance, and he had framed a fancy for her...she knew, she was sure of it, although, during a time of war, there was little fancy for romance. He gave her the _thumbs-up_ as he looked back down the trench in her direction and she could see that he held a confidence in her. Maybe they could share a dance together after the war, she thought, a bit of human interaction that didn't possess the idea of killing...of putting a bullet through another person's brain (?), yeah, that would make her happy...

At that moment the sound of a bugle began to blare, the blast of a horn started to pronounce. It was a relative tone, and the Corporal knew that, in that instance, there was the validation of a forthcoming attack... that the purple-bellies were coming... a

As to the ferocity of the attack...that remained a question unknown...the answer of which, she could not be certain, but it would arrive, and she needed to be prepared.

She poised herself for the initial bombardment...

_************* * Bloody Valley, Bloody Serenity Valley ************_

The Corporal was familiar with the sound of the bugle, with THAT sound it told her that an Alliance onslaught was headed their way. Malcolm Reynolds had been wrong in his assessment. Fox Company would not wait until nightfall to launch their aggression; the attack was beginning NOW, right now, at this very moment!

She dipped down deeper into her hole and covered her ears with her hands; she knew that the attack would commence with a barrage of shelling. Blasts of artillery which was meant to soften them up, force them down deep into their trenches (seeking protection while the troops of the purple army advanced up the slope). However, the Corporal also knew that this would only last for a minute or two. Halfway up the slope the bombs would cease to fall...and the Brownies (a nickname given to the freedom fighters by the soldiers down below), would spring up from their concealment and begin their defense.

It had become somewhat of a routine death match, a dance where your partner was almost able to predict your next move. There was no hidden strategy here, no secret atom bomb being delivered by the _Indianapolis_. It was straight forward kill or be killed. The two sides facing against one another in an upfront assault, with little variation in tactics...however the Alliance knew that they were whittling down the number of defenders that remained on the hill. Superior numbers, it was only a matter of time before the Browncoats wouldn't have the manpower to hold this position, and then it would become theirs.

The Corporal had thought about this too, what the Alliance may consider to be to their advantage, and she knew that with each banzai attack the charge became stiffer, harder to repel, and the confidence of the Allied forces had become more bolstered. She had thought about it and she had come up with a variation of her defense strategy. This time the Brownies did have a secret, a surprise, something that the purple-bellies hadn't counted on.

The Corporal had gotten her hands upon two crates, two boxes filled with mines (in addition to the grenades that Commander Reynolds had promised), and, under the cover of darkness the night before, she had sent out Wilkinson and Squirrel to seed those mines...place them in areas of the slope that were the easiest to traverse. She knew that when she heard the sounds of those mines exploding, that the purple-bellies had reached the half-way mark.

The Corporal could feel the bombardment beginning to subside...and she knew that at this time the ranks of the Alliance force had made it mid-stream up the ridge. Their Intel had likely told them that this portion of the Independence line was now _weakly defended_. Their spotters had likely expressed that the area was only touted by a diluted number of soldiers...the strength of two dozen, maybe less... so it had been assessed that it could now be taken within a few minutes, at most an hour, and without much complication.

The Corporal gritted her teeth... how wrong, how wrong could they be...?

END PART 3


	4. Chapter 4

_**The Corporal 4**_

"_**Battle"**_

From the author: OC Players, Corporal Smith, PFC Dale Palmer, Private Wilkinson, Private Amanda Stippler , Private Wilcox, and Private Jenkins (Squirrel), and thirteen other Browncoat souls holding the line.

Second note from the author: I've been writing Firefly fan-fiction for what seems like centuries now. However, my stories are not the conventional Malnora/ Rayne works...Mine are a little harder to read and sometime express an idea that may be..._WAY, off kilter_. This is not by accident; it is purposely done so that I can express my own thoughts, my own ideas. I feel that "right angle turns" is what may have made Mr. Whedon's vision of the cosmos, so much more appealing to me.

Anyhoo, this chapter, "_Battle_" is focused on what may be described more by a previous chapter (_The Rigors of War_), but even so, I feel that it is still a Firefly story. I hope that you like it and that you find it interesting, Z

_**Previous Chapters: (1) The Rigors of War, (2) A Love Story, (3) Bloody Serenity Valley. **_

_************* Battle*************_

After the initial bombardment of the Alliance artillery, Corporal Smith took her field binoculars, arose, and took survey of the landscape below. She became witness to a line of advancing soldiers, of individuals that may, if given the chance, stick a bayonet clear though her gut. Her inclination was NOT, to give them that chance...

Previous Fox Company attacks had clamored up the hill to within a few feet of Browncoat defensive position, yet none had never actually made it to the top. In her view the Alliance was looking for pay-back...

She hesitated, and then she slipped back down into the trench. She knew that the mines, which had been planted the night before, would tell her what to do.

There were the "_Mammoth Munchers_", a heavy three pound explosive meant to destroy any individual unlucky enough to have stepped on its pressure sensitive cap. It would take them out...and likely any other soldier within six or seven feet of their vicinity. And then there were the "_Plagues_". The smaller mines weighing in at about a pound each... These were meant to pop up into the air and explode in a soldier's face, causing destruction in the head and upper body area, mimicking the look of a plague, hence the name. The _Plagues_ were not necessarily a destructive weapon meant to take out a multitude of targets, but only the single individual unfortunate enough to have placed their foot on the bubble.

Each of these weapons were horrible in their own right, and devices of war devastating and demoralizing, but both sides used them. Mostly the threat of a mine field was used as a deterrent (no army wanted to enter an area or a field that was claimed to be salted with mines), but occasionally there were troops who were brave enough (or foolish), as to not question the orders that would have them proceed through such a location.

Admittedly, the Corporal had used this tactic, this fear, this impulse of not wanting to enter into a mine field by her opponents (the first few days of her command), and it had worked. She had instructed Squirrel to place signs coming up the slope reading "beginning of mine field", and at the other side, "End of mine field". These had swayed the purple uniforms from attacking for a day or two, but bringing in mine-sweepers they had determined that it had been all a ploy (a determination that had been correct) and the Alliance forces had launched an attack soon after. If there was one thing the _Purples _did not like, that was being made to look stupid.

Corporal Smith waited for the sounds of the explosions. Each set of mines made a distinctive sound upon detonation, and since the Corporal had instructed Wilkinson and Squirrel to place the _Mammoths_ further down the hill (and the _Plagues_ up closer to the trench-line), she knew, without seeing, exactly where the advancing purplebelly army's line of attack to be.

Of course the _Mammoths_ went off first, and the screams were blood curdling. Corporal Smith was glad to be down in her hole and not witness to the horror of bodies being ripped apart. However, in moments the sounds of the _Plagues_ detonating came, and the death cries of dying soldiers was terrible, no matter what army they belonged to.

The Corporal gave it a few more seconds and then she arose and set herself in position, her weapon at the ready, and she had prepared herself to view whatever scene happened to befall her sight.

There were dead bodies everywhere, and the advancing line, the survivors who'd made it through the mine-field, were only yards away from the top of the ridge.

At the limit of her vocal-cords she screamed..."FIRE..!" and the trench erupted with the sound of automatic weapon blasts. The first two lines of the advancing army dissolved without taking another breath; however, the third line began throwing up lead of their own.

The Corporal heard a couple of her troopers fall, but there was no time to waste or worry about who those soldiers might be, her attention was on the advancing line. She focused on a target straight ahead and squeezed the trigger. She pumped a heavy slug directly _center mass_ into the body and it dropped, not taking another step. Then she swung her weapon around to take on a new threat. She pumped two bullets into this guy, and he fell in a tangle of barbed wire that made him resemble a scarecrow coming loose from its mount.

A bullet whizzed past her cheek leaving a trail of blood in its wake, she hadn't the time to even consider how close she'd come to, and excuse the pun, "_biting the bullet_". She swung around and delivered three shells into the bulk of and individual who was only eight feet from the top of the ridge...

After that she was witness immediately before her that there were no targets of opportunity advancing within her kill-zone, however, she could also see that the majority of purplebelly survivors had made it up the ridge on her side. She screamed down the trench at her radio operator, who was a mere ten feet from her..."SQUIRREL, GET ON THE HORN AND TELL AMANDA AND WILCOX TO SWING THAT MACHINE-GUN AROUND AND PEPPER THIS SIDE OF THE MOUND WITH ALL THE SPRAY THEY CAN GIVE US!"

The radio operator did as commanded, and in seconds a burst of a machine-gun fire came past their direction and then another ten purplebellies hit the carpet.

A sound came up the hill out from the distance below. It was a call, the sound of a bugle. The troops of Fox Company were being commanded to retreat, to descend back down the slope. The Browncoats had won; they had beaten them back again.

In her trench the Corporal squatted down. There, in her hand, remained an armed grenade waiting to be tossed. She looked over at Private Palmer, he was hunkered down too, and there was a single grenade hanging from his chest. He looked over that his commander, the girl, who with her clever knowledge of combat tactics, had defeated the Allied advance yet again, and he smiled. She was smiling too and mouthed the words "pineapple toss?"

He tilted his head in agreement knowing exactly what she meant.

It was always a pleasure watching the Alliance army scramble in retreat in the face of combat, the fact was (that it felt to the defenders), better than having an exquisite meal made up of steak & potatoes. And too, tossing a couple of grenades after them in lieu of their retreat may help to hurry them along; it was like icing on the cake.

Each freedom fighter stood and prepared to fling their pineapple as far as their strength would allow. Dale stood and flung his melon with the pure purpose of showing that the Browncoats, up on the ridge, hadn't lost their taste for a fight, but before he could duck down he heard the resort of a single gunshot. The bullet came nowhere near him. Likely some defiant purplebelly wanting to show that there was still some fight left in _Fox Company_ as well.

He dipped back down and smiling he looked over at his commander only a few feet away...it was then that his eyes grew as big around grew as saucer-plates.

The Corporal was there, only she was slouched over at the back of the dirt red trench. She'd been hit. The bullet fired hadn't been at him, but her...and evidently, it had found its mark.

He rushed over to see to her injury and also, to her comfort.

END PART 4


	5. Chapter 5

_**The Corporal 5**_

"_**Tracey Smith"**_

_**(A revelation of my own Imagination)**_

From the author:...

Do you ever go "off-grid"? You know, have thoughts that you think have never been thunk before? Well certainly, and I do as well, only there is likely little that has ever been thought before now.

From the generations of folk that have walked this planet...there is likely not a single thought that is unique. However, that isn't to say that a person should stop trying to think of new things. It is part of the motivation of our endeavors.

Now, that spoken, I certainly go through my own tangents (mainly during story telling)...sometimes my..."telling-of-a-tale" may seem bazar, and not so much to do with anything in which category it was placed in. However, I assure you, that there is a connection...that it is relevant.

This Firefly tale, this story involves Tracey Smith (you remember Tracey, from the Firefly episode _The Message_); anyway I am hoping to delve a little deeper into the back-story of Tracey, and that of his family.

With this chapter (and the previous) I hope to establish a little back-ground arc as to the ex-browncoat soldier's personality, and some cause for him having done the things that he did...and, the reasons why he did them. Veering off a bit from canon for sure I am left to forge my own tide, venture along my own path...

This is all homogenized conjecture as you know, which means that it could be either celebrated or condemned by the creators of the show, however, when there is no new works being created...then folks like me tend to create their own rational of a universe that they so well enjoyed.

Anyhoo...This begins Tracey's backstory, and I hope that you find it interesting and relateable, Z

_Players :Tracey Smith, Corporal Stacy Smith, PFC Dale Palmer, Private Wilkinson, Private Amanda Stippler, Private Wilcox, and Private Jenkins (Squirrel)_

_************* Find Someone to Carry You *************_

Private Dale Palmer looked down at the girl, his Corporal, a frail looking creature that seemed hardly able to command an army of frogs...much less a troop of battle hardened soldiers fighting for their lives. She seemed more vulnerable now, now that she lay so limply within his arms. But he knew this girl, knew of her toughness and rigidity, and that she still had fight left within her...she would make it through this, he was certain.

"CORPORAL, CORPORAL...," he shouted! But for a while he received no response.

"CORPORAL, WE'VE WON! THOSE HOG-FACED DODS HAVE GIVEN UP AND RUN BACK DOWN THE HILL!"

He thought that by stating the obvious...that he could push the incentive for her to return, return back to him. Upon expressing those words he felt that he could revive her "life-essence", sprint her back to reality. Force her to not wander into that timeless void of oblivion (that place which was designed to hold your mortal soul before it was cast to its final destination and judgment).

With that spoken, Dale began to see her eyelids flutter a bit, to lift, her soul returning to its body. A single tear began to roll down his cheek, and as it reached the edge of his jawline he was able to see that his prayers had been answered. There was still some life left in his commander. Her eyes slowly opened, but only into narrow slits.

"Call me Stacy," she said, "My name is Stacy Smith."

It seemed not so much as a command, but rather, a request...

"We've won Stacy," he said.

For some time... it bare witness that she had only wanted to be known as the "_Corporal_", however the situation deemed now that she wanted to be known by her given name.

She looked up deep into his eyes...a gorgeous sky blue, she could have become captivated by such oceans, if given the chance...but she knew that time now was something that she didn't have...that within a breath or two she would be gone.

Stacy was like many women... looking for a man to court them, to bring them into the family fold. However so many had failed until Palmer. He seemed to be one to latch-on to, but now, all that seemed to be lost, lost to a future never to be realized, a future, that did not include her.

Stacy's eyes didn't close...still as Dale watched they became void of life.

As Private Palmer looked-on he became witness to the life essence of his love being drained away from her body. It slowly seeped away to the ground until there was only a shell remaining within the grasp of his arms. Had their lives been different, then maybe she could have become captivated by him and they could have produced a family. But all that future had been lost. She had died in his arms...and now his future had been altered.

PFC Dale Palmer couldn't know that he had meant much more to Stacy that just a soldier. That she had depended on him, that she knew of his honor and his loyalty, and he had not been aware that his veiled feelings for her had been so shallow, that she knew him better than he would have cared to admit, and that she knew also that he would have taken the bullet himself, could he reverse time, only, there was no going back. He could not take the bullet himself.

Who in their right mind would ever want to venture a return to Serenity Valley, the nightmare of nightmares...the battle which would plague the dreams of many a solder for a time well-to-come? The torture, the pain, the advent of hell that no one would ever want to relive again, yet Dale would return to it if he could, return and receive a piece of lead through his own heart...to exchange places with the woman he'd so commit his life to. But all of that was gone now.

Yes, Dale remained still haunted by the death of his leader, just as the six remnants of the Browncoat force that remained alive upon that hill, yet his extended beyond the loss of, not only a commander, but of a love that was never realized. The exchange of her existence for his was only the matter of a sleek token.

If Dale could face God in heaven he would tell the Divinity of the mistake that had been made. That his own soul mattered to nothing now... Nothing but a drifting corpse that now frequented bars and taverns. After the war Dale's life became a waste. He relived the moment of Stacy's death sometimes...a moment he had wanted to forget, but was unable.

Palmer had pulled back the vest of her brown outer jacket; he saw the stain of blood that was seeping through her shirt...so close to her heart...and his hope had wavered once more. He had called for the medic...

"BOSWELL, GET YOUR ASS OVER HERE," he had shouted, calling out for the only person that he knew had medical/field experience...but Boswell never came. Instead Amanda Stippler was there. She was next in line with experience (as little as it may be); however, when the medic arrived it was already too late...

Stacy had expired...Private Dale Palmer held onto the body of one, Corporal Stacy Smith, commander of a troop soldiers which had held onto a hill beyond reason. Dedicated in her duty, she had seen to it that the Browncoat army had retained this property, had controlled this ground, but now seemingly as one who'd paid the ultimate price.

The private leaned down and kissed her...it was a saline kiss, a kiss mixed with the passion of a love, but also drenched with the salt of tears, and the idea of a time (for them) which would never be. How many soldiers had lost their dreams on the battlefield? Their thoughts, their hopes...ending in the wake of a bullet...the numbers were countless.

"_When you can't run you crawl, and when you can't...you can't do that..." _

"_...You find someone to carry you..." (Tracey Smith & Zoe Washburn, The Message)_

Private Dale Palmer emerged from a ditch. A red trench stained with the blood of a woman he'd fell in love with. A piece of him was ripped apart as he walked...carrying her body to the rear of the line.

There remained only six souls left on that ridge to defend it, six soldiers wearing brown coats stained with the sweat and blood of soldiers that believed in their duty, in honor.

The Battle of Serenity Valley was soon to end; however, its outcome would live on in so many of the memories of its participant's (both of purple & brown uniform). It would haunt the nightmares of six scared individuals left on that hill. Of six souls who would relive the horror of that fight over and over again...in their nightmares, only they weren't the only ones who had nightmares of that battle...there was another, a Sergeant, one who now Captained a Firefly class vessel named Serenity...yes, Malcolm Reynolds had nightmares... and they were ones that couldn't be understood by most people, only those who'd been there, and done that (like his first mate Zoe). Malcolm Reynolds wasn't an evil or particularly vengeful person, he was but a man, a commander, one who'd seen the worst and yet the good of humanity...and he lived with it every day.

_************* Encounter *************_

It was dark out, and yet again he found himself in a bar which was dense with smoke and the chatter of folk unhappy, unhappy with the way their lives had turned out. But then, wasn't that half of humanity?

He often found himself in such places, afraid to go home, afraid to face his family.

He had written letters to them often during the war... or sent waves back home to his folk, his ma and pa...communications which spoke that he had been promoted to an officer in a secret Browncoat regiment, and, that he had been given privileges. However, it had all been a lie, a fib designed to make them think that their son had become important, and more of an argument as to what they had been told by his teachers back home on the world of St. Albans.

Tracey Smith had lived with the idea that humor could solve everything, that if you could cause people to laugh, then you could manifest a way to solve any problem.

Of course this wasn't true. His ideology had worked in his younger years (at the embarrassed his parents) however, in a grown-up society there was little time for pranks or the divulging of one's humor...those moments had long outpaced the ex-browncoat soldier.

Tracey had assumed that his younger sister Stacy had joined up with the Independence side because of letters that he'd sent back home speaking of commitment and his promotion into an important position, and he took shame because he felt that it was those fabricated words (spoken to boost his own ego, his own glory), which had caused her to commit to the Independence cause.

Now, to his detriment, her body lay somewhere on Hera...in an unmarked grave near Serenity Valley. He felt shame for not to being allowed to find her, and return her body to its rightful place of honor as a soldier in the Honor-Garden of the frozen graveyard of St Albans.

Tracey cursed himself for his deceit, for the lies he had told, for the way he'd convinced his family that he was more important than he really was...and, as in many things, for God's vengeance at his deceit.

It seemed so unfair, unfair that he was that one who had lived through such shit (while his sister had not), that he was the one who'd seen another day, and yet the one true gem in the family had taken her last breath at twenty-one years of age...yet the whole universe is a paradox isn't it? It retains no preordained destiny, no path inclined to tell us which way to travel.

Our souls may travel through time and space, and our actions determine our free will, however there is no prerequisite, no determined route to force us to follow along a certain path. We choose, and we are responsible for that decision... a journey that sets us upon the footpath to our own judgment...still we have the ability to change things.

Tracey Smith noticed a man sitting at the bar of this establishment, a man wearing a Browncoat...honorably, as if he possessed pride in the fact. That was a rare consideration knowing that wearing a browncoat in a tavern of mixed armies could cause trouble. Still, the guy bolstered it as if he had nothing to hide.

Tracey noticed the insignia on his jacket, the same regiment as his sister. This might be an interesting fellow to talk to, to find out information from. He downed the remaining liquid of his drink and then moved to approach the individual sitting at the counter. This fellow, this ex-soldier was a bit of a curiosity to him.

END PART 5


	6. Chapter 6

_**The Corporal 6**_

**_"Selling his Guts"_**

**_********** Remembrance ************_**

Tracey Smith walked up to a counter which contained a seat which was occupied by an individual whom he didn't know, but all the same, shared a connection. Both men had been members of a force who had opposed the now existing government, and both had been on the losing side (however, there were those that still proclaimed that the fight for independence was not wrong, only mismanaged).

Anyway, Tracey approached this guy and immediately the fellow swiveled around in his chair the moment Tracey was within the detection of his perimeter. It seemed as if the fella had radar or something, as if he had eyes behind his head. The man seemed posed to defend himself if the case need be; he was ready for a fight.

"Sorry if I startled you friend," Tracey spoke, "just seeing if you were want of a refill on your drink there?"

The fellow in the brown jacket eyeballed Tracey for a moment...

"I don't like being approaching from my blind-side," he said. However, since Tracey didn't look to be much of a threat, and had offered to refill his glass, Dale's eyes softened and he gestured for his new friend to take the seat next to him.

"My name's Tracey," the man with the curls in his dark hair spoke.

The baldheaded man raised the glass in front of him, took the last remaining sips that it had to offer, and then looked at its clear emptiness.

"I'm Dale," he said, smiling holding up an empty glass towards Tracey...wanting for him to make good on his offer.

Tracey attracted the attention of the barkeep and ordered him a refill.

"So, I see that you were a participant in the fight on Hera," Tracey spoke, "I noticed the patches on your coat," he added. "And you were part of the force that fought in Serenity Valley."

Dale looked at him...

"Yeah,...so what of it?"

"Oh nothing, I was engaged in many struggles myself, on the Independence side, namely the battle of Du-Khang and many others. I had to sit Serenity Valley out though, having become injured at Du-Khang."

(if you remember about that segment of the episode _The Message_, Malcolm Reynolds had carried Tracey out on his back)

Tracey Smith was a master at the telling-of-tales, not that they were lies mind you, only alterations of the truth sometimes. The bending of facts so that they fit better his description. Yes he had become injured in the battle of Du-Khang, falling debris which had pelted him in the back. But maybe those injuries hadn't been as severe as he had claimed. Anyway, had he been a participant in the fight for Serenity Valley, then, he might have become aware that his sister had also been a part of that struggle.

Now Tracey lived with the regret of not knowing where his younger sibling had been buried. Six foot under, in the red soil of Hera, her body was somewhere. He wanted to have her remains exhumed and returned to St. Albans, for the peace of her soul and the comfort of their parents. He wished this, and if possible he'd have done it, only he didn't have the knowledge of where to search, or the means of paying the grave-keepers for their efforts to locate the body of a single soldier.

Tracey struggled with the idea that he had been the cause of, not only of his sister's death, but also of her corpse remaining on foreign soil. He wished to return her to the snow filled valleys of St. Albans...to soar among the eagles that flew and rested in their cradles in the high mountain peaks of that frozen wasteland. St Albans may have been a planet of harshness and suffering, but in a sense, it still possessed the daybreaks and sunsets of world bathed in its own beauty.

Tracey remembered when he and his sister were younger, how they had traversed the mountains and been witness to sights unseen by others (Children seem so much more adaptable. They seem to accept the world as it was, rather than what as it could be).

Tracey remembered promising to take care of his sister. He had promised Stacy that he would keep her safe. That he would look after and return her home should she not be able to herself. They had looked across the forge together, across the drift of an overcast valley, and onto the monument of the mountain beyond.

Well, he had failed in his promise to keep her safe, and now he was failing in his promise to return her back home.

Tracey took a sip of his own drink...

"I had a sister that fought in that battle," he paused, "...same regiment as you. Her name was Stacy Smith. You wouldn't have happened to known her, would you?"

Dale Palmer was stunned; why sure he'd known the Stacy Smith. He has fallen in love with the girl, and now here was her brother asking if he'd known her.

"Yes I knew her," Dale replied, "knew her well, she was my Corporal, my commander."

What a jest God plays on us sometimes...here parsecs away, in a smoky 'ol bar that was better known for its flea-bitten hounds outside (actually the name of the tavern was Tick Bites), he had met a man that not only knew his sister, but had fought at her side. Tracey was flabbergasted...

**_********** Selling his Guts ************_**

After nearly an hour of conversation, Tracey felt that he knew Dale pretty well and that his sister had been in command of a fine unit of soldiers well fit to fight for her. Tracey had always been a little skeptical of tales of glory and honor, but listening to Dale's reliving of what had taken place on that hill had cause him to become consumed by even more guilt, guilt that he had caused.

"Yes, I would like to know where she is buried so that I can retrieve her body and bring her back home," the St Albans native spoke as he took the last swig of the drink he had in the glass before him.

Dale turned to him with a puzzled look...

"I know exactly where she is buried," he said, "The troops that I was with laid her to rest in a grave with a cross that had the words carved into it _"The Corporal"._ It was what they felt she would have wanted. Not knowing if she had family and all, I agreed. I can tell you exactly where to find her."

Tracey was shocked. For years he had searched for his sister's grave marker, and for those same years he had come up empty. He had concluded that he'd never be able to locate the final resting place of his sibling. His family grieved, but now there was a possibility that he would be able to find his little sister. There was only one problem. The Alliance government had told, that every soldier killed in battle, both Alliance and Browncoat, would be returned to their native soil, however, the process would take time.

Tracey was aware of the age of his parents, and time was something that they had little to spare. He could advance the process if he had coin. Money often spoke the loudest whenever folk wanted to get something done; however, it was also something that he had little of. The keepers of the Hera Cemeteries would not dig up a body on a person's word alone. There were papers which had to be signed, and money which needed to exchange hands. They would do it, but only for a price.

"I would return her body to our parents if I had the capability," Tracey said, resting his empty glass back on the counter, "but I am stressed for coin," he spoke looking around the bar. "Just as I assume that ever soul here has a sob story that could be cured, if they had the _square_."

Dale looked at him...

"There is a way," Dale informed. Tracey glared into the blue eyes, the eyes of which his sister had stared into just before taking her final breath. Dale continued, "Research...I got note that there is a project being conducted by a secret experimental laboratory. It pays a substantial amount if the subject be willing," he stopped and awaited Tracey's response.

"So, what is it?"

Dale began again...

"One has to be willing to sell their soul. To allow doctors to carve out your innards, and have them substituted with works artificially grown in a controlled environment," he paused here, "Don't ask me more...I ain't no scientist or doctor, I only know that it pays well, and that they are looking for Guinea pigs...souls that are willing to sign on the dotted line. If you are so willing to recover your sister's body, however you are lacking the resources, then this my friend, may be the way to get it. It may be the opportunity you've been waiting for," Dale said, and then he added raising his glass...

"Here's to selling our guts..." and then he took the final swig of his own drink, and then placed the empty container on the counter next to Tracey's.

END PART 6


End file.
